


Next Time, Pack Them Separately

by Quiddity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Meetings, Pre-Relationship, tired shiro is a kleptomaniac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:50:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiddity/pseuds/Quiddity
Summary: “So, uh, you in Detroit on business?” Lance asks. The guy glances at him and for a second Lance thinks that he’s terribly misread his mood and he’s about to be snubbed in the worst way. Then he notices the dark circles under his eyes. The man’s totally exhausted.“No,” the man says, shuffling together his papers and securing them together with a wicked looking alligator clip. “I’m headed to New York.” Lance perks up.“Oh! Me too! I’m headed there to meet up with- uh…” Lance is cut off when his neighbor unbuckles himself, stands, and pushes into the line of passengers with a muttered apology. Lance sits there, dumbfounded as the man opens the overhead compartment and pulls down his-Nope.That’s Lance’s bag he’s strapping over his shoulder.That’s his palm tree name tag, that’s his laptop, that’s his senior film project he’s been working on for the past six months and his external hard drive with only back up of three hundred hours of work just shambling down the aisle and off the plane.Oh no.





	Next Time, Pack Them Separately

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic for the lovely [@mizulekitten](https://mizulekitten.tumblr.com/) for always be a great help to me in my times of need. Even though this is pre-shance, shance I hope you like it! Thank you always!

Lance’s stomach lurches as the plane touches down on the runway at Detroit International. He sighs, slumping in his seat and resting his temple on the smooth wall of the plane. The soft rumble of the plane moves through him as it turns and makes its way to the gate. Outside, the world is darkening as the sun sets, the first thick, cotton ball flurries of a winter storm fluttering past the window.

Five hours down, five more would find him in New York where his family was waiting to meet him for New Year’s Eve. A roundtrip flight from LA to NYC in the last week of December? It’d hurt his pocket, bad. But it was still better than trying to drive. Besides, Lance thinks, glancing to his neighbor, it wasn’t the  _ worst  _ flight ever. 

The guy sitting next to him was, for lack of a better word, hot. He was tall and broad shouldered, and he must have had a really important job to be wearing business casual on a five hour flight during the holidays. Though, with his white forelock and scarred nose, he’ looked curious. He was quiet and had spent nearly the entire flight bent over his tray table, reading through a thick stack of tightly spaced documents, marking and making notes. Even after the flight attendant had come by and told him to put his tray up before they landed, he’d simply dutifully put his table into the upright and locked position and went write back to writing his notes over his knee. Lance had absolutely wasted the entire flight glued to his phone. Trying not to ogle him while struggling to come up with a half decent conversation starter.

The plane jostles him a little as it comes to a stop. They’re going to be here for a few minutes; the plane is stuffed to the gills. Lance clears his throat, willing the heat out of his cheeks. He’s got to at least introduce himself so he can’t count this as a complete failure. Now or never, because the instant he gets off the plane this dude’s gone for good. 

“So, uh, you in Detroit on business?” Lance asks. The guy glances at him and for a second Lance thinks that he’s terribly misread his mood and he’s about to be snubbed in the worst way. Then he notices the dark circles under his eyes. The man’s totally exhausted.

“No,” the man says, shuffling together his papers and securing them together with a wicked looking alligator clip. “I’m headed to New York.” Lance perks up.

“Oh! Me too! I’m headed there to meet up with- uh…” Lance is cut off when his neighbor unbuckles himself, stands, and pushes into the line of passengers with a muttered apology. Lance sits there, dumbfounded as the man opens the overhead compartment and pulls down his-

Nope.

That’s  _ Lance’s  _ bag he’s strapping over his shoulder. 

That’s his palm tree name tag, that’s his laptop, that’s his senior film project he’s been working on for the past six months  _ and  _ his external hard drive with only back up of three hundred hours of work just shambling down the aisle and off the plane. 

Oh no. 

_ Oh  _ **_no_ ** _. _

_ Why would he ever store his laptop and hard drive in the same bag!? _

Lance’s seat belt cuts into his stomach as he tries to stand and rush after him. He curses under his breath, unbuckles himself and bangs his thigh on the arm rest between seats. 

“Can I-” he almost immediately gives up trying to get in the aisle. A man carrying a baby seat passes him by. Then his wife and their two children behind them. Then an elderly couple. Then a woman with a heavy bag in front of her. Twenty seconds feel like twenty minutes because there’s a guy literally walking away with his college degree in one of the biggest airports in the United States. 

Finally, someone has mercy on him and lets him through. Lance peeks into the overhead compartment and sees another bag very much like his own. He takes it, because it must be his neighbor’s since it’s the only bag remaining. It’s another messenger style in a similar deep blue, but slightly larger and less worn. Lance puts it over his shoulder and grumbles. It’s  _ clearly  _ not the same bag, but it’s enough to give the guy the benefit of the doubt after seeing how tired he was. 

For now. It all depends on if he can get his bag back in the ninety minute layover he’s got before his next flight. Lance’s mind works overtime as he makes his way down the ramp and through the gate into the wide hallway of the terminal. He fiddles with the name tag on his ‘stolen’ bag.

Oh. The name tag. He glances at it and gets a name. Takashi Shirogane. That name sounds oddly familiar. Like he’s seen it before some place that he can’t quite place. But that’s for later, when he’s sorted this out. An address out of Pasadena. A phone number. 

Lance stops short hard enough that someone nearly runs into him. He apologizes and pulls out his phone, punching in Shirogane’s number. He finds a quiet-ish corner in the hall as it rings. His heart skips when someone picks up. 

“Hello?” a deep, groggy voice asks. Lance swallows. Then more professionally. “Uhm, Shiro speaking.”

“Hi. My name is Lance and I think I sat next to you on the plane you just got off of,” he starts. He hears rustling on the other side, the echo of the busy airport hitting him both around him and through the phone’s speakers. 

“How did you get this number?” he asks, his voice firmer and just a little aggressive. Lance huffs. 

“Dude! You stole my bag! I picked up yours on my way off the plane but I  _ really  _ need mine back. There’s a lot of work in there,” Lance growls. 

“What…” Shiro starts. His voice dims and Lance thinks he hears the faint jingle of a zipper. Faint: “Oh my God!” Then stronger. “Lance McClain? I did. I have it here. I am  _ so  _ sorry. I was in a rush and- well, are you still in Terminal A? Turn left where you first got off the plane. I’ll be right outside the first Starbucks you come across. I haven’t made it far. I’m just down the hall,” Shiro says.

“Okay, I think I’ll recognize you. I’ll see you in a few minutes then,” Lance says. He hangs up feeling infinitely better. At least he was able to make contact and Shiro doesn’t seem too interested in giving him trouble over the switched bags. He heads down the hall, taking care to double check his direction. 

The Starbucks in question is, like Shiro said, just down the hall. Lance finds him standing away from the line, easy to spot with his white forelock and the scar across his nose. Lance’s bag is cradled gently under his arm and he’s  _ still  _ holding that thick stack of paper in his hand. Lance picks up his pace. Shiro glaces at him, and the instant of recognition in his eyes has Lance’s heart jumping and his lips wanting to pull into a smile. It almost feels like meeting an old friend.

“I am so, so sorry Lance,” Shiro says. He takes a few steps to meet him at the edge of the hall. He offers the bag and Lance trades with him. “I promise, I didn’t open it and everything’s still in there,” Shiro says. But even as he does, they both check their bags, catch each other doing it, and laugh.

“Thank you,” Lance hums as he settles his bag back where it belongs. This is so stupid of him. Next time, he’ll pack his external hard drive in his suitcase so this doesn’t happen again. 

“No, thank you. I had a lot of important work in here too. If I’d lost this… Well, That’s  _ weeks _ of work lost that I just can’t get back easily,” Shiro says, looking worried. He half turns towards the Starbucks, gives Lance a questioning look. “Uhm, are you in a rush to your next flight? I’d like to treat you to coffee for the trouble.” 

“I’ve got to be at the gate by six-fifteen so I’ve got more than an hour,” Lance says. “But you don’t really have to-” Shiro motions him in. 

“No, come on,” Shiro says, playfully firm. “You’ve saved me a  _ lot  _ of time by bringing me my bag. You could have just dropped it off at a desk somewhere and I would have just been completely out of luck when I landed in New York,” Shiro says. He pats his bag. “These things are for meetings tomorrow.”

Lance caves and follows Shiro through the open doorway to the end of the line. Instantly, the atmosphere is warm and cozy. It’s more like Lance is in a coffee shop at night than in the middle of a busy airport just after a five o'clock winter sunset. Lance purrs at the scent of bitter coffee and rich, sweet pastries and sinks in a little further into his jacket. 

“Can I ask what you do?” Lance asks after a comfortable second of silence. “Looking at your nametag I thought I recognized your name but I couldn’t place it anywhere.” 

“I’m an editor for Voltron Publishing House,” Shiro says. Lance’s brow shoots up. VPH was one of his favorite publishers. They were his go to for his science fiction and fantasy fixes. Shiro looks equally surprised. “I’ve only written a couple little things, so I’m really flattered you thought you recognized me. Usually my name is only really small somewhere in those first few pages everyone always skips anyways.”

“No way! Did you work on The Altean Cycle?” Lance asks. He whispers the title, a little flustered to drop names and admit how much he loved the fantasy series. Shiro nods. 

“Of course, those were my firsts. I worked on The Galra Empire as well,” Shiro says. They shuffle further up in line and Shiro flushes happily. He’s still got those dark circles under his eyes and he’s clearly tired, but it’s so obvious that Shiro loves his work that it makes Lance’s heart flutter just hearing him talk about it. 

“Can I ask what you were working on on our flight?” Lance asks, glancing at him slyly. Shiro shakes his head. He gives Lance a coy smile. 

“It’s still an early draft, so I can’t give you any real details. But I will say that it’s a new series written by a close friend of mine,” Shiro says. Lance huffs. 

“Who?” he presses. Shiro laughs. 

“I can’t tell you. Only that he’s published with us before, and that he’s pretty talented,” Shiro says. Lance is quiet for nearly a minute, preoccupied by thinking up of his order and wondering if he should chip in for one of those chocolate muffins in the case. 

“Coran?” He asks. 

“No,” Shiro says, chuckling. 

“Lotor? His worldbuilding is pretty out there,” Lance hums. Again, Shiro shakes his head. 

“Keith? I mean, I know he just debuted last year but-” Lance is cut off when Shiro gently brushes his arm, giving him a patient smile. 

“Stop guessing! I really can’t tell you,” he says. Lance only nods. It’s Keith. Which is exciting because he  _ devoured  _ the one and only book he’s put out so far and he’s dying to read what’s coming up next but. Trade secrets and all. 

Finally, they reach the front of the line. Lance gets himself a caramel macchiato and, at Shiro’s insistence, that chocolate muffin. Shiro gets himself a muffin as well and black coffee with two shots of espresso. Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed seeing Shiro knock that back with a straight face. 

“You told me you were headed to New York earlier,” Lance says as they meander back out into the hall. “I’m headed there too. What gate do you have?” 

“Mn,” Shiro says. They both slow as they come to one of the sets of screens showing upcoming flights. Lance groans. Most of the screen is lit up in red. With a bit of searching he finds his flight. Marked in red like almost every other flight. Because it’s delayed until tomorrow morning. That snow he’d seen coming in must be a lot worse than he’d expected. 

“Oh, dammit,” Lance breathes. Shiro hums, questioning. But his shoulders slump, similarly defeated a second later.

“My flights delayed,” he sighs. He points, vaguely in the same area Lance was looking. “B3. It’s not leaving until tomorrow morning.” 

“Cool news,” Lance says, tucking his coffee cup between his elbow and his chest as he digs his phone out of his pocket. “We had the same connecting flight. Bad news. We’re stuck here.” 

Shiro’s got his phone out as well. For several minutes, he doesn’t reply because he’s making a work call. He’s got this deep business voice that Lance finds mildly distracting as he texts his mother telling her not to worry about picking him up tonight and that he’ll let her know when he’ll make it in soon. 

“Well, at least I’ve got my manuscripts with me now,” Shiro says, tucking his phone in his back pocket. He gives Lance a warm smile. “Honestly, I can’t complain too much. I’m really looking forward to the chance at a few hours of sleep. They’ll have to get over a late afternoon tomorrow,” he says. Then, motioning down the hall. “Want to come to the desk with me? They’ll probably put us up in the same hotel so we might as well stick together for awhile since we’re headed the same way.” 

“Oh, come on. I’m not that interesting,” Lance says teasingly. But he’s giddy, thinking that Shiro, an editor for his  _ favorite  _ publisher would want to hang out with him, some dinky film student who thought it was perfectly fine to store his original and backup copies of Very Important Work in the same carry on bag. 

“Why not? I never got to hear about this work I almost made off with,” Shiro says, taking another deep sip of his coffee.

“It’s my senior film project,” Lance admits shyly. He half expects Shiro to shrug it off as beneath him, but his expression is genuinely curious. 

“Oh yeah? Can you tell me about it?” he asks. 

“Only that it’s sci-fi,” Lance teases. “The rest is a secret.” Shiro gives him a double take realizing his own excuse being turned on him. 

“Oh come on! That’s not fair at all,” he huffs. “I need details. Indie stuff is always the best.”

“Why, so you can steal it?” Lance asks playfully. He’s not actually worried about that. The plot was cheap because his group were working on a threadbare budget and they really couldn’t afford anything ambitious enough to be impressive. 

“No, cause if it’s interesting maybe there’s a book deal a couple years down the road for you. Or… I know some film guys. Maybe I could point them your way?” Shiro says. That was a pretty sweet deal but… that would require them to hang out a little more than this one night at the airport, right? What was Shiro getting at?

“Only if you tell me who wrote that manuscript you were carrying around,” Lance prods. 

“Okay, fine, Lance. It’s Keith’s. But that’s  _ private  _ info. If it gets out that I told someone that guy’s gonna skin me so. Do we have a deal?” Shiro asks. Lance nods, feeling smug and proud of himself for getting Shiro to crack. Though, Shiro caved so easily he wonders if he’s either lying or so much of a sci-fi buff he just can’t help himself. Either way, Lance can’t pass up a chance to talk about his biggest project to someone who actually seems interested.

“So it starts like this…”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [@quiddid](http://quiddid.tumblr.com/)


End file.
